Vendetta Stone (1) Page 3

  Jackson took a left on East Trinity Lane and soon pulled into the parking lot of the Metro Police Department’s still-new East Precinct. The facility opened on July 24, 2007, and the state-of-the-art precinct delivered on everything the aging station house lacked, except character. Three years later it still exuded a sterile, wet-paint, look-but-don’t-touch feel. At just over twenty thousand square feet, this precinct was six times larger than the one it replaced. One hundred and thirty officers—sergeants and detectives, including supervisory officers, and then another twenty or so support personnel worked at the facility. The design included a two-thousand-square-foot community meeting room, where outreach programs, seminars, and media briefings were held.

  The precinct’s nerve center communications department, AKA “the bubble,” a reinforced glass enclosure, helped coordinate officers and served as a lifeline for the public, where someone coming in off the streets first reported a crime.

  Jackson arrived at the station house about three p.m. and sat in his car waiting for Stan Allenby to arrive. The blazing sun made it too hot to stay out long, so he went inside and stood in the reception area. The officer in “the bubble” asked if he could help, and Jackson explained his presence.

  “Someone will be right with you,” the officer said. “Would you like a cup of coffee or soft drink?”

  “Got anything made by Budweiser?” The amiable smirk wasn’t returned.

  Allenby was late, so Jackson called the lawyer’s office.

  “Mr. Allenby got stuck in court proceedings, but called and said to tell you if you called that he would be leaving soon for East Nashville,” the secretary said.

  That delay gave Jackson time to shake off the effects of the couple of beers downed at Eddie Paul’s and scout around outside. The sudden change from the climate-controlled police lobby to the burst of August heat made Jackson break into an immediate sweat. Removing his sport coat, he walked the station’s perimeter to get his bearings, taking note of the precinct’s unobstructed views in all directions. A chain link fence topped by a coil barbed wire surrounded the parking lot full of cruisers and personal vehicles.

  Jackson anticipated his plan would cause a major public reaction, and he wanted to make a quick getaway without answering a bunch of questions from either the media or the cops. He walked up and down Trinity Lane several times, then down a couple of side streets in each direction. Then he went back to the station and moved his car a couple of blocks away, parking behind the white-bricked Nashville Public Health facility. His car looked out of place in the run-down residential area that showed its age. Several kids were out playing in yards, paying no attention to Jackson. Walking back to the precinct, he checked to see if his car could be seen from the street. Nope. Good. He wiped his brow several times, threw his sport coat over his left shoulder, and huffed a little as he walked up the hill.

  “Man, I am so out of shape,” Jackson mumbled as he went back into the lobby and used his smartphone to call his brother. He barked out two questions.

  “Yeah, I called all the media, and everybody said they’d be there by four-thirty,” Patrick said. “What else?”

  “You planning to come? I might need a fast ride outta here.”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “I’ll explain after I meet with the cops,” Jackson said and clicked off.

  Twenty minutes later, Allenby wheeled his white Cadillac into the parking lot. Detective James Williams, the lead investigator since Angela disappeared, greeted them. So far, Williams failed to impress Jackson. His cool demeanor didn’t fit Jackson’s stereotypical mental image of a hard-boiled detective. He expected Shaft, and instead got the shaft. A thirty-five-year-old black man, Williams stood about five-foot-eleven and weighed right at two hundred pounds. A pencil-thin mustache seemed too small for his moon face, but his dark, intense eyes revealed a keen intelligence. A sharp dresser, Williams spoke with an easy-going drawl that exuded the same laid-back confidence of a sax player down at one of the jazz clubs in the Printer’s Alley entertainment district.

  Williams, a member of the Nashville force for thirteen years, proved good at his job. A thorough check into Jackson and Angela’s backgrounds revealed no hint of dirt or scandal, no financial or marital problems, no cheating by either spouse.

  Williams had checked the airlines and Jackson’s business connections in Charlotte to verify every statement Jackson made in those first few days of the investigation. There were no discrepancies, no hints that Jackson had hired a hit-man in order to collect an insurance payoff. Angela’s modeling career had allowed her to amass a sizable bank account, but her will specified that unless it involved a personal injury settlement, seventy-five percent of her estate would go to various local charities, designating most, but allowing Jackson to select two charities. Word for word, codicil for codicil, their wills matched. The couple agreed the surviving spouse could take care of him/herself and wanted their earnings to be put to work after they were gone.

  But instincts told Williams he missed something. He’d seen some good actors and always saw through it. Jackson might be telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but doubtful. He might be the bereaved, grieving husband, yet still hiding something. But what?

  “So, Mister Stone, everything seems to be in order, and I guess we’re done,” Williams said. “We’ll be in touch, but rest assured we’re doing everything we can to find your wife’s killer.” The detective paused as Jackson returned a firm handshake. A grimace replaced the smile.

  “So, one last time. Is there anything else you can tell us, something that can shed some light on what happened to your wife?”

  Anxious to meet the press, Jackson let his anger spike and introduced the cops to a very different Jackson Stone.

  “What happened to my wife is that whoever did this is still out there,” he said, “and you guys are clueless. You’ve spent a week wasting time looking at me instead of tracking the butcher who killed her.”

  Williams’ eyes widened at the verbal assault as Allenby pressed hard on Jackson’s shoulder and told him to get hold of himself. Precinct Commander Mark Reynolds emerged from an adjoining room to defuse the situation, adding, “I’m sure you understand we look at everyone and everything in every case that comes our way. Detective Williams thoroughly checked out other leads and details. We’ll share them with you at the appropriate time, but today we’re going to let the world know, while we are still looking at anyone and everyone, you are no longer being considered as the primary suspect.”

  The lawyer answered before Jackson popped off again, but Jackson’s stare said plenty.

  “That’s fine. We look forward to regular updates on how the case is proceeding and hope your hunt comes to a swift, satisfying conclusion. Please forgive Jackson’s outburst.”

  Reynolds’ plan to just release a statement changed when he was informed that the media awaited in the briefing room. The commander felt the public nature of the case warranted an assurance that his department undertook a pro-active approach in the search. Allenby didn’t know Jackson had alerted the media.

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this? Now might not be the best time,” Allenby advised.

  “No, I need to get this done today,” Jackson said, and turned to the precinct commander.

  “Sir, I’ll make a brief statement after you finish, but I don’t want to take questions afterward. Can you get me out of here without running a media gantlet?”

  “There’s an exit right off the community assembly room that goes out into our parking lot. It’s not accessible by the public, and the fence can only be opened by a cruiser making contact with the sensor panel. But we can override if you pull your car inside,” Reynolds said.

  Jackson didn’t apologize for his earlier outburst, but thanked the officers and looked at his watch. At five till five, they headed into the lobby. Jackson peered in and saw the media gathered around the front lectern, his brother sitting in the back.
He motioned for Patrick to step outside as Allenby went inside.

  “Look, I need to borrow your car,” Jackson half-whispered. “I can’t explain right now, but mine’s parked behind the public health center just down the street. That’s where your car will be in about fifteen minutes. Pull your car around the building and inside the fence and park by that door. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

  Reynolds talked to a patrol officer, who went around out front and let the civilian car enter the restricted area.

  Patrick nodded and followed the cop outside. Jackson went into the briefing room and sat next to Allenby up front.

  5

  Jackson studied the reporters and camera crews as Reynolds discussed various aspects of the investigation and then offered to take a few questions. Several hands raised, and Reynolds fielded them deftly, answering in the vaguest of terms. Jackson’s intense concentration broke when Reynolds called his name.

  I remember thinking how bad he looked. I glanced around for our late-as-usual photographer, Casey Leiber, and spotted her. She blew hair out of her face and squatted just below camera range of the television lighting so she didn’t use her flash. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson’s brother Patrick re-enter the room, take a seat in the back, and nod. I looked forward and a somber Jackson Stone nodded back.

  As Jackson stepped to the lectern, he seemed to lapse into a fog as if deciding whether he wanted to go through with his plan to talk. The collective media grew silent, tension filling the room. Those hushed seconds seemed to last forever.

  “Jack?”

  Allenby’s barking voice cut through the fog, and Jackson recognized his surroundings and the difficult path he’d chosen. He cleared his throat and mumbled a “scuze me” and wiped a tear from the corner of his left eye. Steeling himself, he understood his dangerous plan would change his life forever. He couldn’t imagine how many other lives it would alter—and in some instances end.

  After he said his first two shocking lines: “I don’t want justice . . . I want revenge,” a resolute Jackson stood there for several long seconds, watching the various reactions of the media—eyes popping wide open with astonishment, words forming but only mimed, the note-taking freezing in mid-scribble, some audible gasps. We were all caught off guard at this unexpected development.

  For veteran newsmen and women, press conferences like this were supposed to be routine. For the electronic media, it meant interviewing the police spokesman, getting the grieving family member on tape for a thirty-second sound bite, followed by sympathetic words from the anchor back at the station, then moving on to the next big story. For print media like myself, I wanted hard facts from the cops to wrap around some colorful comments that might warrant better play for my story.

  “Colorful” described my face as I flushed with excitement, realizing the impact of the story that had fallen into my lap. In all my years on the police beat, I’d never heard a victim’s relative issue such an outrageous declaration. And he wasn’t done.

  Click-click-click-click-click. The cameras of the print media whirred non-stop as Jackson shook with rage, then took a deep breath. He looked down at his hands. When they no longer trembled, Jackson clinched them and continued. He stared at the cameras, his outward calm making his words more chilling.

  “Whoever did this to my wife, he better hope the police find him before I do. I will spend the rest of my life hunting down this scumbag if that’s what it takes.”

  Jackson then aimed his right index finger at the cameras as he spoke with an air of assuredness, glaring from camera to camera for maximum effect. Cameras zoomed in for close-ups of the unshaven, haggard face. Rumpled as he looked, his mind remained clear and his eyes blazed. This guy meant business.

  I stole a quick glance at others seated up front. Commander Reynolds and Jackson’s attorney, Allenby, appeared stunned. Allenby, in particular, looked ready to jump out of his chair and wrestle the mike out of Jackson’s hands. But with every wrenching second of this “meltdown” being recorded, neither man moved. I didn’t dare turn to the back of the room to gauge Patrick’s reaction.

  “And when I find you, you won’t die quick. That’s no threat, that’s a promise,” Jackson continued, speaking slow and sure with occasional pauses for emphasis. “I promise you I will start by breaking both of your legs. While they’re healing, I promise I will torture you for the rest of your miserable life in ways I’ve just begun to imagine. When I think you’ve finally suffered enough—and that’s going to be awhile, I promise—I’ll gut you like a deer and take my time doing it. Then I’ll feed your carcass to the dogs. You’re real good at hurting helpless women. Let’s see how you cry, how you bleed.

  “Look over your shoulder every day, because I’m coming. It may not be tomorrow or next week or next year, but I’ll find you. And if the cops find you first, I’ll still find a way to get to you.” He paused. “I will end you.”

  Then it was over. Just like that. Jackson turned to his left and darted to the exit door, gave it a shove, and stepped outside. He jumped in Patrick’s white Ford station wagon and sped away.

  6

  What had pushed Jackson to this point?

  Not the first question racing through my mind at his shocking press conference, but it required answering first.

  I would eventually discover that it was not a snap decision, but one Jackson had reached over several hours through a series of recollections followed by a connect-the-dot chain of events.

  The plan came out of his most memorable hunting trip with his father in 1975.

  “That’s what makes this a sport, Jacky,” Larry Stone explained that crisp, late October day as they walked the woods of northwest Davidson County near the Cumberland River. “It’s just you and me, relying on our senses and our tracking skills to find that big boy. Then you watch and wait for the shot—count on getting just one—and when that moment comes, you’re going to use all your well-honed abilities to make that shot count. You don’t want the animal to suffer. You want a clean kill.”

  The ten-year-old nodded. Deer hunting differed from other sports he played, but pitting newfound skills in a test of man versus beast challenged Jacky. A glance down a path off to his right quickened his pulse.

  “Dad, look over here. Fresh tracks.”

  “We’re close, kiddo, keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Crack! The morning’s silence shattered at what first sounded like a firecracker exploding, then another.

  Cr-a-a-a-a-a-ack! A furious whistling followed that echo, and the youngster looked up. A flock of small birds flew overhead.

  “Stay alert, Jacky.” They double-timed it over the outcropping toward the shots and stepped into the clearing where two twenty-something hunters stood over a ten-point buck. The heavyset redhead drew his knife, preparing to gut the deer.

  “Howdy, fellas, looks like you just beat us to him. We’ve spent all morning tracking that big boy for a few—”

  The salt block on the ground melted Larry’s smile, and Jacky recalled the lecture about luring deer into the open. His shivers came not from the October winds blowing in off the nearby river, but in the startling transformation in front of him. His six-foot dad seemed like a giant as he stared down the two young hunters who were of equal size, just not equal heart.

  “You two are gutless,” Larry said. He then leaned back and talked over his shoulder to explain to his son, though his eyes never left the men. “Deer love salt, real hunters hate it. Little punks like these give real hunters a bad name. Baiting a field may be legal, but it ain’t sportin’ . . . it’s just killin’.”

  The uncertain younger hunter on the left glanced at his friend as Larry Stone took three methodical steps to his right so that the sun blinded the youths. A savage grin came across Larry’s face as he glared.

  “And anybody can kill, can’t they, fellas?”

  The hunter still gripping the knife took a slight step forward as he started to say something, but Larry cut him
off, elevating his rifle enough to let them know he meant business. Eye contact broke as the hunter looked down to realize the barrel pointed at his belt buckle. Maybe an inch or two lower.

  “Way I see it, you’ve got two bad choices, kid,” Larry said. “Use that blade or try for your rifle.” He paused and sneered. “I’m feeling generous, and I’m giving you a third, one-time-only offer. Get out of here. Scram!”

  It produced the same effect on one as if he’d shouted “boo!” Jacky stifled a laugh as the younger of the two hunters fled for the surrounding brush.

  Then Jacky stiffened, realizing the knife-wielder stood his ground. Unlocking eyes with Larry, the scruffy hunter leaned to his right and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. He dropped the knife point-first, and it stuck.

  “You’re pretty tough with that rifle, old man. You’re not taking our deer.”

  Larry’s sneer turned into a threatening grin.

  “Jacky.” The boy didn’t move, and his father spoke again, harsher. “Jacky!”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Take this,” he said, handing over his rifle.

  “Yes sir.”

  Larry Stone then began removing his hunting jacket, speaking calmly yet chillingly to his son. “Jacky, take this and go stand over by the trees. This won’t take long.”

  “Yes sir.” Jacky’s adrenaline surged as he grasped the camouflage jacket and stepped back while his father stepped forward. That decided the young hunter. He didn’t want the deer—or his knife—and cut into the woods in the same direction as his friend.

  “I’m calling the cops. You’re crazy, mister,” the fleeing hunter shouted as he scrambled out of sight.

  “That’s right,” Larry Stone yelled back. “Run! And don’t come back!”